


could not ask for more (than this time with you)

by PanBoleyn



Series: Happy Birthday, Queliot! [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Quentin Coldwater Lives, good thing Quentin belongs to us now even AO3 knows it right?, guess what AO3 prompts that tag now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:25:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn
Summary: Quentin always spends his birthdays quietly. Eliot isn't going to change that, exactly, but he can definitely improve upon it.





	could not ask for more (than this time with you)

**Author's Note:**

> So, basically canon with a pair of twists, the minor one being that Quentin's "I want you in my life" to Alice in 4.12 was "I want you in my life, as my friend" and of course the big one being that Quentin survived what happened in the Mirror World.

Quentin doesn’t remember just when he took to spending his birthdays quietly. They’d always been sort of basic, anyway - just his dad and Julia, his mother when he was younger (and she’d usually stop in briefly after the divorce), James once Julia pulled him into their circle in high school. But a summer birthday means that even in elementary school, when kids’ parents send in boxes of cookies or cupcakes to share with the class, that had never come up for him. 

He doesn’t remember ever minding, actually. Even as a kid he’d been shy and awkward, and he wouldn’t have wanted everyone’s eyes on him. (He can still remember fourth grade, the teacher shaming her students by reading out the grades on all their social studies quizzes. Remembers being stared at like an alien because he was the only one with As on all of them. Julia hadn’t been in his class that year.) And he’d never had enough friends for a full-blown birthday party, so usually his dad would take him to do something, usually with Julia along, and he’d get birthday cards in the mail during that week from his various extended relatives on his mother’s side. 

He got a few of those this year too, in the PO Box he’d set up because obviously none of his mail could go to Brakebills. 

But he thinks high school might be when he decided his birthdays were going to be quiet. For one thing, he’d turned sixteen in the hospital, and after that, well. It was easier to just make July 20 a day meant more for just… not doing anything. He went out with Julia, or agreed to go to parties with her, on other days. His birthday was for him, and so he used to mostly just curl up with his Fillory books and call it a day, maybe order his favorite takeout or buy a new book he wanted, something small like that. 

The last three years, well. He doesn’t actually remember what he’d been doing the day he turned twenty-four, so Niffin Alice must have had control of him for enough of that day that he can’t remember. He’d been on the Muntjac headed for the Abyss when he’d turned twenty-five. He never did tell Eliot that he was pretty sure the day he’d asked Eliot to come on the boat quest with him was his twenty-fifth birthday. Under the circumstances, it hadn’t seemed like the thing to say. His twenty-sixth birthday, he’d been Brian, and Brian’s birthday was in March. He’d also been somewhere on the steppes of Central Asia for most of July, with the Monster, but let’s not go there, right?

Actually, fun fact. The only person who knows his birthday now, among people he actually talks to anyway, is Julia. Not even Eliot knows, because neither of them had bothered to calculate their birthdays in the Fillorian calendar at the Mosaic. Quentin knows El’s is the day before Halloween, because in his first year that had been the excuse to make the Cottage Halloween bash… even more extra than the other parties. Most people seemed to think that was his birthday, but Eliot had given Quentin a sly smile, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and said, “So, a little secret of mine, Q, is that my birthday was actually yesterday, but don’t tell anyone, this is much more fun.” 

But he’d never actually had a summer with his friends where they weren’t neck deep in trouble. So, he’d never mentioned it.

So, just Julia. Who is in London this year, tracking down a lead on fixing her magic which, though it came back, is still very patchy. She’d called him this morning, of course, and he’d promised he’s fine, just going to take it easy like he usually does. They’ve known each other long enough that she must have heard the sincerity in his voice, and so she’d promised to bring him back a souvenir as a belated gift, and left it at that.

She worries more, now. Quentin supposes that makes sense, after the incident at the Seam. His back is streaked with thin white sunburst scars now, where his own magic had almost eaten him alive. He still remembers the moment where he’d paused, where he’d almost stopped running. 

  
What he’s never told anyone, except the therapist he’s been seeing, is why he started running again. Here it is: a brief moment in that trippy forest, Eliot on the ground calling Margo Bambi, and that was all the words he had in him probably, but his eyes had moved, had met Quentin’s for one brief moment - 

  
That moment. And the moment in the park. And Quentin had started running again. Still, he’s lucky to have made twenty-seven, and he knows it. He’s actually starting to feel like it _was_ lucky again, which. Is nice. Actually. Which is why he’s in another park today, he’d gone out with his sketchbooks but now he’s just lying in the grass under a tree, looking at the green against blue, flipping his pencil over and under his fingers.

  
A shadow and the faint thump of a cane against dirt makes him turn his head, and - “You are even more unfairly tall than usual from down here,” he tells Eliot, who smiles down at him and then carefully levers himself down. El’s leg is mostly healed these days - his stomach wound was properly fixed as soon as magic was back on, but something about the nerve damage in his leg resists magical methods. Still, Quentin sits up, mildly alarmed. “El -” 

“Hush, Q, I’m already down,” Eliot says, and because he sat down near where Quentin’s feet had been, he’s able to lean back against the trunk of the tree. Quentin curls a leg under himself and watches Eliot tip his head back, dappled sunlight and shadow playing over his face. 

  
It has always been unfair just how goddamned beautiful he is, and Quentin’s tried not to stare since, well, since the throne room, but… Fuck it. It’s his birthday, he can stare at the semi-secret love of his life for a few minutes while the man in question isn’t paying attention to him, can’t he? Eliot’s foot brushes Quentin’s knee as El carefully stretches out his legs, and that’s a stupidly innocent touch that still sends a jolt through Quentin’s entire body. But where he’d normally wish it away, today, again, he just lets himself feel it. 

  
“So I had a text message from Julia this morning,” Eliot says, opening his eyes and catching Quentin right in the act of staring. Shit. Also, wait, why was Julia texting Eliot? They don’t really get along that well, though Julia and Margo had found a strange new solidarity in keeping watch over Quentin and Eliot. Quentin finds this oddly hilarious; he thinks Eliot is exasperated by it but can’t be sure. Not anymore. 

“A text from Jules? What about?” 

  
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that someone is turning twenty-seven today?” Eliot says, and his smile is playful but his eyes are almost hurt. “How come I didn’t know about that, huh?” 

  
Quentin shrugs, and his hair has finally grown out enough that he can hide behind it again, so that’s what he does, ducking his head and watching the pencil he’s still holding flip over and under his fingers. “Never really came up,” he explains. “We’ve been busy the last couple summers, and also I don’t - do anything, El. So, you know.”

  
“Q, come over next to me, huh?” Eliot says, and his voice is soft and strange, something almost pleading in it. Quentin is confused, but he goes willingly, meaning to lean back against the tree himself, but Eliot’s arm wraps around his shoulders and Quentin automatically reaches to wrap an arm around him in turn, till he’s tucked into Eliot’s side, head on El’s shoulder and his chin resting on top of Quentin’s head. 

_You held me like this on my last birthday, I think,_ Quentin doesn’t say. _The last one that I knew it was my birthday, anyway._ He doesn’t want to upset either of them, so he just snuggles a little closer, closing his eyes and looking for that simple enjoyment in having his birthday be a nice day for once. July being more known for sticky heat than a day like this, warm and breezy with only a hint of humidity.

  
In being held by Eliot again for the first time in so long, because at first he’d flinched at Eliot’s touch and then he didn’t know how to say he was fine again. And Eliot had seemed afraid to test the waters, until now. Quentin’s eyes sting behind his closed lids and he doesn’t know if the tears trying to escape are happy or sad. Maybe both. “I missed you,” he says, a whisper on the breeze. 

  
“I missed you too, sweetheart, and now I find out I almost missed something else.” 

  
“Well, that’s my fault. I really didn’t think about it, I guess. I don’t… really do things for my birthday, you know?” Eliot is nuzzling at Quentin’s temple, and it’s very distracting. “El… what are you…?” Because they don’t do this anymore, Eliot said he didn’t want this, and if he’s just being cuddly in lieu of a birthday gift or something then that is not -

  
“I wanted to talk to you when I woke up, but you weren’t awake yourself yet. And by the time you were… Margo thought you might have gotten back with Alice, she wasn’t sure, and even when it was clear if you had it didn’t last long, well. Lost my nerve again. And I’m hoping this is a good day for it, that it’s something you want to hear, but, well.” 

  
“Eliot.” Quentin pulls away, sits up straight so he can look Eliot in the eyes. They’re even more golden than usual in the sun-and-shadow light, and one curl has come loose from Eliot’s careful styling, a dark curve on his forehead. Again, Quentin reflects on how unfair Eliot Waugh’s entire _existence_ is. “Eliot, whatever it is, if you’re using my birthday as a reason to tell me, then _I’m_ using my birthday as a reason to say, don’t dance around it, just tell me.”

  
Eliot reaches for Quentin’s hand, tangles their fingers together. Their hands have always fit together so naturally, and sometimes Quentin wonders why it took him so long to notice it. But Eliot is staring at their joined hands as if the words he can’t seem to find are written somewhere in their skin. “I did some calculations, you know. We didn’t think it was worth it at the Mosaic, but I knew how to do it. We went, and came back, a few days before the 20th, two years ago. I’m pretty sure you left on the Muntjac on the 21st, which means when you asked me to come the day before...” 

  
“Eliot -” 

  
“That kind of makes me feel even worse, but also, I thought. Hey, perfect time to fix it, right? So.” Eliot stops, free hand gripping his cane so tight his fingers are white-knuckled. His cane that perfectly matches the one he’d acquired at a harvest fair, a lifetime ago when they were old men, and now they are young men together again. How very _Inception_ of them, Quentin thinks, because he doesn’t dare think of what Eliot might be gearing up to say, because if he guesses this one wrong - 

  
Eliot looks up at him then and Quentin’s heart slams into his throat, because Eliot’s eyes are so intent, amber-gold and blazing. “I pushed you away. And then I was gone. And I came back and you were - almost - but it’s your damn birthday, you’re still here, and I love you. I want you, I want - want to _keep_ you and never _fucking_ let go, all right? If you still want that.”

_“Eliot.”_ Quentin should probably say more than that, but he can tell, can feel - his tongue would trip over the words, make a mess of them. So instead he leans in like he did a lifetime ago, a few days after a twenty-sixth birthday that never happened, and presses his lips to Eliot’s. Soft, testing, but this kiss doesn’t stay like that, Eliot’s hand curling round the back of Quentin’s neck and pulling him in. 

  
“I love you. Stay with me, God, Q, just. Don’t leave.” 

  
“You have to promise that too, El. I love you too but - you can’t go either. Please.” 

  
Desperate whispers against each other’s lips, and they’re in public, they really shouldn’t be doing this but Quentin doesn’t give a single fuck, he can’t be bothered, not now. Quentin kisses Eliot again, just shy of desperate, and climbs into his lap so he can press closer. Eliot’s hand grips his neck and his other arm wraps around Quentin’s waist, and Quentin gets his fingers in Eliot’s hair, mussing it up like he’s always longed to. Eliot didn’t style it at the Mosaic really, no point, but he’s all put together again, and that means Quentin finally gets to mess him up. Their hips slot together and Quentin whines against Eliot’s lips, swallows the low moan Eliot makes when Quentin shifts on top of him. 

  
Only - they are in a public park. “Take me home?” Quentin whispers, and Eliot laughs. 

  
“You’ll have to get off my lap first.” 

  
“Damn.” But Quentin can do that, so he does that.

  


<><><>

  


Quentin’s room is closer, so they end up there. Apparently the distance between the front door and Quentin’s bedroom door was as far as Eliot was prepared to wait, because as soon as it’s shut he has Quentin shoved up against the wood, his cane clattering to the floor. Quentin isn’t complaining, fingers fisted in Eliot’s vest and yanking him impossibly closer as he opens for his kiss. 

  
“Missed you, missed this, stay with me,” Eliot whispers against Quentin’s skin, lips leaving his to trail along his jaw, down his neck - until he freezes, and Quentin knows why. Some of the scarring made it to his neck, after all, a few thin lines of white that spill over his shoulder and the base of his neck to his collarbone. Eliot lets out a shaky breath, the puff of air warm against Quentin’s skin, and he thinks of the axe scar just under where he’s still gripping Eliot’s vest. 

  
Eliot pushes back, yanking Quentin’s shirt over his head, Quentin barely getting his arms up in time to let him. “On the bed,” Eliot says hoarsely and Quentin has no reason to object to that so he sheds his pants and sits on the bed in his briefs, starts to lay back and - 

  
Gossamer silk grips him and turns him over, Eliot’s power familiar and thrilling all at once, enough so that he shivers under the touch of it, turning his head so his face isn’t mashed into the pillow, so he can see Eliot looking at him. “El?” 

  
Eliot is just staring at him, and Quentin isn’t sure - but then Eliot blinks and starts shedding his own clothes until, like Quentin, he’s down to nothing but briefs, silky things that fit significantly closer than Quentin’s own. Eliot’s clearly already hard under them, and Quentin swallows, biting back the urge to slip to his knees on the floor and get his mouth on Eliot. He would like that, very much, but Eliot seems to have a plan here and Quentin’s always liked that very much too. 

  
Eliot climbs onto the bed behind Quentin, pressing him down as he lays over him, kissing the back of his neck just where there’s a small starburst of white, like a sparkler pressed to Quentin’s skin there. His lips and hands trail down, and Quentin shivers under the attention so that it takes him a moment to realize Eliot is mapping his scars with lips and fingers, tracing every place where Quentin’s own magic almost claimed him, sucking careful marks over scar tissue as if that can erase them or - 

  
“They’re almost beautiful,” Eliot whispers against Quentin’s spine. “And they mean you’re still here, that you survived this. I’m just reminding you to keep coming back, understand?” 

  
“El -” And Quentin can’t stand it, all right, he pushes up just enough to unbalance Eliot, to give him room to turn over and look him in the eye, those amber-gold eyes gone several shades darker, and Quentin pulls him down into another kiss. He kisses him almost hard enough to bruise, _I’m still here and you’re back and neither of us are going anywhere again,_ this kiss says like a promise, like a vow.

  
Their hips slot together again and Quentin dimly thinks that they should stop long enough to get rid of their underwear, but Eliot shifts above him, hands curling in Quentin’s and pressing them into the mattress like he’s holding him down and - Quentin forgets what, if anything, he was thinking, moaning into Eliot’s mouth and arching up against him, seeking friction, seeking more. 

  
“Sshh, I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,” Eliot murmurs, rolling his hips against Quentin’s slow and deliberate, Quentin whining as he arches up to meet him. Eliot lets go of one of Quentin’s hands, or rather traces tuts against his palm and - “Oh,” Quentin breathes, hips rolling all the more desperately now that they’re skin to skin, cocks rubbing together as Eliot sets a faster pace.

  
It doesn’t take long, Quentin coming with a low, rough moan, muffling the sound in Eliot’s shoulder, dizzily sucking a mark there himself as he feels Eliot shudder above him as he comes too, both of them half melting into each other in the aftermath. Eliot nuzzles at Quentin’s neck and Quentin turns his face into Eliot’s curls, both of them needing more contact as they catch their breath. 

  
It’s Quentin who remembers the spell to clean them both up and he almost doesn’t bother, but he knows that while he doesn’t mind the sticky warmth right now, they both will soon enough. So he sighs and flicks his fingers like Eliot once taught him, and Eliot leans up for a soft, playful kiss. “I think you learned those better than your Poppers.”

  
“Well, better incentive,” Quentin says, smiling up at him. 

  
“Is that so?” 

  
“That’s so,” Quentin says, trying to be solemn and failing miserably. Eliot grins, trailing a finger down Quentin’s cheek. 

  
“So… I might have told Margo and she might have birthday plans. Nothing big, we do know you, we’re just going to this little Chinese place she and I found years ago. Tiny, not fancy at all, but amazing food. You’ll like it. Then back home, we found that movie you said you wanted to see. Sound good?”

  
“Sounds good,” Quentin says, a little surprised that he means it. Quiet birthdays are still preferable but - quiet with company sounds… really nice, actually. 

  
“Good. We’re going to have to clean up better than a spell, though,” Eliot says, mischief in his eyes. “And we do have a bit of a time crunch, so we should really save time and water, share a shower?” 

  
Quentin can’t help it; he starts honestly giggling, of all things. “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

They still end up late. But only by ten minutes. Quentin thinks that, under the circumstances, that's the very most anyone could have expected.


End file.
